


Mourning

by somethingsalwayswrong



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-04 18:12:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingsalwayswrong/pseuds/somethingsalwayswrong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Post-Reichenbach) </p><p>A brief study of John Watson after the Fall.</p><p>While it's not technically Johnlock, I had it in mind while writing. So I'd say it's safe for shippers and non-shippers alike.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mourning

**Author's Note:**

> Any critiques you could give would be ever so appreciated as I'm always up for improving.

He rarely ate, preferring the gnawing at his stomach that kept him sharp, alert, going. When he was thinking too hard, he would go so still and so cold you'd think he was dead. He used to bite his nails and under moments of extreme duress, his fingers automatically went to his lips still. His shampoo was cheap. His clothes were expensive. He liked lemon in his tea. His guilty pleasure was watching Indian soap operas because he could never guess what would happen next. When he was excited about his latest discovery, his hand gestures became wild.

John could fill a book with details about Sherlock. Things that you'd only know about a person if you lived with them. He kept them locked away in a recess of his brain so that anytime he saw blue cashmere or a long-abandoned cup of tea with a lemon wedge by it, Sherlock came back to him, full force. 

There was so much about mourning nobody had said. They never said he'd wake up with the distinct impression that someone tall and lanky had just been in his bed. They never mentioned how he'd have amazing days where the world felt right until he remembered that yes, Sherlock was really dead and he'd feel guilty for not remembering. They never bothered to tell him that some nights, he'd ache from the sheer amount of crying and others he'd ache from the lack of it. He laid awake at night, coming to the realization over and over that there could be no life after Sherlock. Once you encounter a force like that, nothing remains in its wake.

He limped again. Limp to work, limp home, limp to obligated social events. One evening, the fog had come in heavy, as it does some London evenings. He limped home, limped up the stairs, limped to his room. And froze. There was a figure by the window, only illuminated by the streetlights shining through the blinds. A person, tall and foreboding, staring out at the city below. Could it be...? John silently hoped, his breath catching in his throat. But after a moment, the figure turned and, while it was a Holmes brother, it was not the one he silently prayed for.

"What are you doing here, Mycroft?" John spat out, more angry with himself for being hopeful than anything. 

"Why, John, that's hardly the way to speak to an old friend." When this failed to elicit a response from John, he sighed and stepped forward in the dark. "I came to check on you. Anthea's been by but failed to give me any information I found useful."

John crossed his arms in frustration, his cane leaning against his leg. "I don't need a babysitter, Mycroft. I can take care of myself."

"Can you? I've hardly seen head or tail of you since the funeral. You've lost more weight than is healthy in this short amount of time. Even in the dark, I can tell you forgot to shave this morning."

"And so what if I have? This is my life to do with as I please!"

Mycroft let that familiar smirk of his spread across his face. "You're not living, Dr. Watson. You can't continue like this."

John wanted to argue with Mycroft, wanted to kick him out of his flat. But part of him realized that Mycroft was right. If Sherlock were here, would he want to see this? Would he want this hollow man, driven only by some unquenchable need to feel alive again? 

 

After a moment of silence, the elder Holmes boy stepped out of the darkness of the room and towards John. He placed a hand on his shoulder and offered a smile. "Do try and keep in contact." Then he left and the room was quiet again. 

-

Months went by. John tried to live as if he weren't broken inside. He kept up his appearance. He went out with friends. While he wasn't happy, he was far from miserable. He had managed to carve out a small, but pleasurable, existence in London.

Before Sherlock, his life was painted grey. There wasn't joy, there wasn't grief, there wasn't excitement; just existing. Once he met Sherlock, it seemed like his world had jumped to technicolor. Everything popped and buzzed with energy. He wasn't just existing anymore, he was truly living.

John's life had threatened to go back to that grey place, where a gun in his hand was as dangerous to himself as anyone around him. But now it seemed, he had finally managed to find some color to his world again. It wasn't the bright excitement of Sherlock's world, no. But it was warm tones that made him feel content, if not fully alive.

There was still a hopeful flutter when John saw the fluttering of a Belstaff's tails or a sick churning in his stomach when he caught a whiff of that particular aftershave but it no longer killed him, only reminded him that there was once something truly good in his life.

So it appeared there was a life after Sherlock.


End file.
